


Baking: An Insufferable Task

by sergeant_smudge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Birthday, Fluff, God it's been a while since I wrote anything, M/M, Sherlock Being an Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_smudge/pseuds/sergeant_smudge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows about as much about cake as he does space. It's John's birthday, and though it would be easier, he can't give him the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baking: An Insufferable Task

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1moresickfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1moresickfic/gifts).



> Birthday gift for one of my horrible friends.

“What am I _doing?”_

“Yeah. What are you doing for John’s birthday? You do know it’s this Tuesday right?” Lestrade cursed and put his thumb in his mouth as the hot coffee splashed over his hand.

“Of course I know. I’m not daft,” Sherlock snapped, clacking out the rest of a text message before sliding the technology back into his coat pocket and smoothly standing away from the glass casing of the vending machine.

“You can’t blame me for asking. You do forget these things sometimes, Sherlock.” The DI flapped his hand about in the air before pulling the paper cup from the machine and taking a sip. Sherlock made an offended sort of noise and began striding down the long office laden hall of the precinct, pulling his phone out again and sending off a text to John.

 

> _Lestrade being insultingly idiotic today._
> 
> _Coming home to avoid a brain tumor. Will bring Chinese._
> 
> _23 minutes._
> 
> _-SH_

  

“Sherlock, I still need help on the case!” Lestrade half-shouted at Sherlock as his long legs carried him further and further from the offending hot beverages.

“It was definitely the blonde friend. Obviously hated the teacher, even you could see that. Don’t blame her really.”

“You know I can’t just go and have her arrested without proof,” Lestrade said, gesticulating with the cup. Repetitive. Dull.  Sherlock sighed, stopping and spinning on his heel so he was facing the detective.

“Check the chat logs on her computer - it’s something you should have done ages ago. Teenage girl? Murder via cleverly placed poison on a widely hated teacher? You think she wouldn’t brag about it to her friends?”

“Sherlock that’s rid-”

“I don’t know why you still pretend to doubt me, it wastes so much time,” Sherlock replied offhandedly, glancing down at his phone again. Still no response from John. “Just check them.” He started walking again. “Oh! And I’d recommend losing that cologne. Neither of your girlfriends enjoy it. They both suspect there’s another by the way.”

“I don’t have-”

“Once again, lying is futile. Especially when you’re so horrible at it.” Sherlock bounced a bit as he shoved the double doors at the end of the hallway, swinging them open with a flourish.

Sherlock smiled as the doors swung behind him, his phone buzzing in his hand.

 

> dont be rude to him im the one who has to deal with it when youre bored with no case
> 
> and id like to keep at least a little bit of my sanity
> 
> get the orange chicken i like
> 
>      stop signing your texts

 

Ah, John and his disregard of syntax. Sherlock trotted down the three flights of stairs and hailed a cab. Two days until John’s birthday. It seemed to have come out of nowhere. Sherlock winced at the memory of John theiving his birthdate from the traitorous Mycroft and forcing him into festivities. He would never live down the pointy paper party hats. Dreadful things.

Hopefully John wouldn’t require them at his own birthday. He would probably want them specifically to spite Sherlock. Although Sherlock supposed that maybe he could get out of them if enough other traditions were honored.

Gifts.

Balloons.

John’s Nerve Grating Sister.

Streamers.

Confetti Cannons.

Cake.

 

Gifts with John were easy. Any sort of the ridiculous clothing that he wore would make him happy, as well as anything sentimental that supported John’s idea he had emotions. Simple.

Mrs. Hudson would be more than happy to do the decorations if he suggested that he wanted it to be perfect. It seemed that most of the things on his list involved emotional manipulation of some kind. Brilliant. Harry would be invited and not show up like always. Not a problem then. Confetti cannons were not accepted last time. Then again, last time the confetti was on fire and the target was John’s bedspread. So confetti cannons are a maybe.

And that leaves…

Cake.

          Ah.

Baking.

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the thought, tossing a few bills at the cabbie as he slid from the car. He ordered the food on autopilot, barely noticing what he was doing until the smell of greasy Chinese interrupted his thoughts and he had to crack the window of the cab.

 

John asked why he was so distracted as he dug into the paper containers, but Sherlock just spooned another chopsticks full of rice into his mouth and excused himself, leaning down backwards as an afterthought to press closed lips to the crown of John’s head. “Do not disturb me for the next forty-three minutes,” he muttered into John’s hair.

“What’s with all the exact time measurements?” John asked, laughing and pushing Sherlock away with his elbow, fingers clutching chopsticks. “Take a shower, you smell like Twin Dragon.” Sherlock spun around and plucked a piece of chicken from John’s meal, popping it in his mouth before he could react. “Go do whatever it is you don’t want to be disturbed doing and leave my chicken alone,” John admonished, holding the flimsy cardboard protectively. Sherlock hmphed and disappeared into his room.

Apparently cake was a rather difficult concept. Baking was chemistry, but it seemed completely foreign to what he knew. Everything was in cups and grams and involved stirring at the right time and vague visual descriptions as to what things were supposed to look like at different stages. It would be a challenge. And based on what he had read - everything having infinite possible outcomes that were either good or bad depending on each person’s individual tastes - it would not be a fun challenge. Not to mention the fact that he had only two days and whatever time he could find in his own schedule without John’s awareness.

Forty-three minutes later, he had compiled the best components of the top ten best cake recipes that he could find. John was assuredly asleep on the couch already, his neck cricked at an angle that would most definitely cause some complaining tomorrow. Sherlock placed a hand on John’s shoulder and shook him gently.

“What,” John growled, frowning as he sleepily swatted away Sherlock’s hand.  

“You’re going to be complaining about your neck tomorrow if you don’t move.”

“Don’t care. Comfortable.” Sherlock stepped around to the front of the couch and stared at John and his crooked neckedness. John cracked an eye open and glared at him. “Don’t you dare,” he said in a warning voice. He shifted away when Sherlock grinned in his Grinch-esque fashion. “No,” he tried weakly. But there were arms under his and his legs were falling to the ground as Sherlock dragged him across the carpet and angled them both into his bedroom.

“This would be less humiliating on your part if you let me pick you up fully.”

“Not true. You can carry me the day I stop having legs,” he grumbled in reply. Sherlock dropped him on his bed. John pulled himself up the rest of the way, stripping off his jumper and shimmying out of his trousers before pulling the covers over himself. Sherlock made to get in the bed as well, but John stopped him. “You still smell like overpriced food. Go take a shower.” John burrowed deeper into the pillows. Sherlock stared at him. The lengths he went to for John. Baking and showering. It was absurd. “Hurry up, I’m cold.”

Okay maybe he could live with absurdity. Definitely.

 

It was today. John’s birthday. About noon. And still not a successful cake.

Nearly all of yesterday had been baking and failing while John was working a triple shift at the surgery. Sherlock had sent carefully worded emails to the two other doctors that were supposed to be working that day telling them that they needed not come in. It had involved hacking into an email account, but there were important things on the line. Lestrade had taken John out for the morning so Sherlock would have time to prepare. There were nonsensical decorations up courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. He had shouted at her when she tried to give him tips in baking. He’d have John apologize later. What did she know about the difference of baking soda and powder? There was no difference. Obviously.

Bowls and dirty dishware littered every available surface, batter and flour clinging to cabinet handles as egg dripped onto the floor. Cleaning wasn’t necessary. John would be home in approximately eight minutes and the latest cake needed six. Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair, knocking the safety goggles he’d forgotten about to the floor and making a mini explosion radius of powders. There was egg somewhere on his neck. He could feel it. Baking was apparently not one of his strong suits, Sherlock thought as he poked impatiently at one of the chunks of half-baked mush from one of the other attempts. When the timer beeped, Sherlock barely remembered to put on oven gloves before pulling it from the heat. This one would work. It had to. He’d used at least double the amount of vanilla extract than the recipe suggested. It was bound to boost the taste.

Front door click. Greeting to Mrs. Hudson. John was home. And ahead of schedule. Unacceptable. Groaning, Sherlock shook one of the gloves from his hands as he set the newest cake pan on top of one of the others. It was pale yellow and looked almost exactly like the color of the one on the box. Except this one was supposed to be chocolate. He swanned about until he met a fork or a spoon or something and used it to dig into the near liquid looking thing. He spat out the taste immediately, his first thought being that someone must have poisoned it for the ‘cake’ to taste that bad. He scrunched his face and snatched at the metal cylinder. He yelped and dropped it immediately, kicking it in disgust with his bare foot. It hurt his toes more than he’d like to admit, but the sight of it flying into the living room and releasing itself from the cake pan like some sort of deranged looking squid beast was satisfying enough for him. Sherlock huffed and dropped to the floor, shoving a ring of measuring spoons away with his foot.

“Sherlock? Why is there a… something on the carpet?” John’s voice came, growing louder as he leaned around the corner of the kitchen. Sherlock slid down the wall more so he was nearly flat on the linoleum and threw one cake ingredient sodden arm over his eyes. “Good god, what have you done to the kitchen?” John asked, and for all the world he sounded at least a little amused.

“Baking,” Sherlock sneered, like it was the most evil word to ever pass his lips. John pursed his own, glancing about the flat.

“Nice decorations. I assume Mrs. Hudson?” John slid down the cabinets to sit next to the sprawled and defeated detective. He reached across the floor and picked up the safety goggles from the layer of white dust. “Are you sure you were baking? Knowing you, baking could end up starting a nuclear war on Saturn.” he grinned, laughing though he valiantly attempted not to. Sherlock groaned and scooted across the floor, picking up flour like a flamboyant and lanky mop as he crawled onto John’s outstretched legs.

John exhaled through his nose, smiling as he combed fingers through powdered black curls. “Were you trying to make me a birthday cake, Sherlock?” He rolled over so he was looking at John’s face.

“I thought it would be a good enough substitute for the hats?”

“Wait what?”

“Nothing.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, you clot, you don’t have to wear party hats at birthdays. It’s not mandatory.”

“Then why did you make me wear one last year?”

“For the same reason I got you to wear reindeer antlers at Christmas,” John said, staring down at Sherlock who was looking expectant. “Blackmail,” John supplied darkly. He ruffled Sherlock’s hair and stood, sending the angry looking one onto the ground.

“I don’t know how you managed to mess up something most eight year olds can do. Did you measure with these?” John asked incredulously, holding up strangely shaped scientific glassware scored with brightly colored lines.

“What else would I measure with?” Sherlock scoffed, pulling himself to his feet.

“Uh I don’t know, measuring cups maybe? The ones made special for baking.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.

“I know we have some. Nice aluminum ones too.”

Another sound.

“No you didn’t.”

Repeating. How dull.

“What did you do to my measuring cups!?”

Pause.

“John did you know that the melting point of aluminum is roughly six-hundred and sixty degrees?”

“I can’t believe you,” John said as he left the room, moving towards the front door to go up the stairs. He couldn’t really be mad right? It was his birthday. He wasn’t allowed to be anything but happy. Those were the rules.

“John,” Sherlock called, frowning and following after quickly. “John, please.” Watson was up two stairs to his bedroom and Sherlock had just gotten a foot on the first one when John spun around, grabbing the cake face with both hands and leaning down to meet Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock was shocked at first, not responding to the sudden change in emotion, but he found his footing quickly and returned the kiss, nearly pulling John from the stair in his excitement. They were smiling a bit too much for it to work properly, but it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. When they broke away, gasping, John touched their foreheads together.

“I see why you enjoy being the taller one. It’s nice.” He giggled and released Sherlock, turning to head up the stairs. Holmes looked confused, standing lost like the ugly duckling on the bottom stair. John turned around about halfway up, looking down on him fondly. “We can’t very well cover your bed in flour and cake bits can we?” John said mysteriously, hopping backwards up another step. A look of understanding dawned on Sherlock, and he grinned like the Cheshire Cat, every one of his teeth showing under mischievous eyes.  “Want to come along then?” he asked, stepping up again. Sherlock put his foot on the next stair.

“Oh. God. Yes.”

 

 

 


End file.
